Dear Tom

Dear Tom,

I heard a rumor the other day and you are the only one I know who could verify it for me (I tried Snopes, and struck out).  The rumor was this:  All the men in Mensa have huge penises and are voracious lovers. Is that true?

Signed,

Smitty

Dear Smitty,

I have only been a member of that august club for a couple months. As such, I do not have enough data to confirm that rumor.  Based on what I do know, though, I cannot rule it out.

Tom

Thought of the Day

Sometimes I look at my daughter, born in Guatemala, and my son, born in Florida, and think, "I'm really sorry for plucking you out of the tropics and dropping you in Minnesota."

Thought of the Day

Sometimes being a good dad means telling your embarrassed daughter about the time that you, too, shit in your pants, and admitting that it wasn't so long ago.

Dear Smitty

Dear Smitty,

I need help with the New York Times crossword. Do you know where Green Peter Lake is?

Signed,

I’d jump in the lake…if I could find it.

Dear I’d jump in the lake…if I could find it,

I think I may know this. Are you talking about Lake Havasu, by chance? I know that’s not its official name, but I’ve gone there for Spring Break a few times, and I always end up with a green peter.

I hope that helps,

Smitty

Baby Manager

I was a lumberyard manager back in the day. I didn’t know it, but managing those clowns turned out to be great training for my job as a parent of young children.  One of my favorite tricks, when I had to ask one of the guys to do a job I knew he was going to hate, was to tell him he couldn’t go home until he got that task, and about 4 others, done.  The yard ape would always throw a fit over having so much to do. I would let him complain for a while, and wait for the horror of it to sink in. And when he was at his lowest point, I would let him off the hook, “Just kidding, just do X and you can go.”  With great relief, he would bound off and happily get the job done.

This same trick can be used to get a restless baby to go to sleep. Here’s how it works:  I start out by rocking the baby.  This hardly ever gets him to sleep. He wants nothing to do with being held, and he thrashes around, elbowing me in the face and kicking me wherever he can.  So we move to Phase 2; I put him in his crib and let him cry. Sometimes, he will cry himself to sleep. Usually, though, he’ll cry until I go get him (he’s lasted an hour before).  So I let him cry for a while; long enough that he is beyond desperate to be held. Phase 3- I go in and let him off the hook. I pick him up, and he is so damn glad to see me that he melts into my arms, and bounds happily off to sleep.

Metallica

I was 9 years old when Metallica released, “Kill ‘em All”, its first album.  I started noticing Metallica t-shirts a few years after that. And I couldn’t help also noticing that people with whom I didn’t want to cross paths usually wore those t-shirts. In fact, though I had no proof, I was fairly certain that in order to be a true fan of the band, and to have permission to wear shirts sanctioned by the band, one must first eat the liver of his or her younger sibling. 

By the time they released “Metallica”, I was 17 and no longer afraid of the band nor its fans.  Sug and I were in St. Cloud, visiting a friend of his who was a year older than us, and in college, the first time I heard “Enter Sandman.”  We were at a party in the basement of a house appropriately nicknamed, The Pit. The basement was unfinished, except for the floors, which were unfortunately carpeted. The carpet, I learned, is what gave the house its nickname. It was soggy, sated with spilled beer and chew spit and who knows what else. A pit. In one corner of the basement, behind dog-kennel fencing, was the stereo. I don’t know exactly how big the speakers back there were; they were big enough, at any rate, that I was hopeful they would serve as heart defibulators, if needed. 

I was standing directly in front of those speakers, with my back against the fence, when “Enter Sandman” erupted. It felt like someone punched me in a kidney. I shit in my pants. A girl a few feet in front of me collapsed. I don’t know what happened to her but, since she was not wearing a HAZMAT suit, I assume she died within a couple days.  The lights next door flickered, plaster fell from the ceiling; the seismographs at the University sprang to life.  I regained my composure and stayed at the epicenter until the cops shut the party down.

The hearing loss I suffered as a result of that night outlasted my hangover. Still, as soon as I was able, I went out and bought that CD. 

These were my thoughts this morning when “Enter Sandman” came on the radio during our commute to preschool and as I turned it up just a bit and taught my daughter how to bang her head.

Santa

I don’t recommend having kids just so that Christmas is fun again, but if you are thinking about it you should know that it does work.  Tonight, as we bundled up and prepared to leave the Mall of America, the good mall Santa walked past us. This is one of those Santas that, if you saw him in shorts and a T-shirt at a baseball game, you would still recognize as Santa. But tonight, even though he was clearly on his way home, he was in full costume.  Our four year-old stared at him as he approached. Finally she gave him a shy, flick-of-the-wrist wave. He gave her a cheerful “hello” and complimented her smile as he breezed past us. He was out the door and out of sight before we finished getting coats and mittens on, though our daughter completed those tasks in double time.  On our way to the car I wondered aloud whether we would see Santa’s sleigh, and, if so, whether Rudolph would be in the lead tonight. The kid’s pace quickened some more, her eyes fixed on the gap on the outside of the parking ramp, searching for a glimpse.

A quick geographic note:  The Mall of America is less than a mile away from the Minneapolis/St. Paul International Airport. Knowing that, you will not be surprised to learn that, when we exited the parking ramp and looked into the northern sky, (where surely Santa and his sleigh would be expected to be) we saw flashing lights, including one which was red. 

“Look, Daddy! I see Santa! And Rudolph the Red-Nosed Deer!”  

And so did I.